I just noticed that the post I just published for yesterday is considered my “400th” post by WordPress. It isn’t exactly when you factor in all of the posts that I deleted when I published my thousandth post a while back Still, it put in mind the idea that I should celebrate something. The fact that tomorrow’s my birthday is putting me in the mood to do something a little special. I won’t be posting tomorrow. I usually don’t on Sundays anyway but I am behind one for this last week. I’ll make it up at some point soon. But anyway, with the celebratory mood I’m in I decided to go ahead and publish a few lines from my writings over the years… in particular, the crap.
But now, in the course of one afternoon, he grew up and became a nymphomaniac in his mother’s eyes. He never really cared what she thought of him, really. Growing up in such a boring, average town seemed to give him enough of a happy childhood that he never had to please his mother.
I’m not even going to justify the logic of that paragraph. I don’t care what I meant. I include it as an example of some of the garbage from my twenties that I’m not particularly proud of. After I left college I tried my hand off an on at short stories. I had several false starts, including the one the above excerpt came from. It was supposed to be a comedic coming-of-age story about a kid discovering sex in his teens. Not having the experience I only had bad sitcoms and the like to draw inspiration from. However, I do like the phrase “a nymphomaniac in his mother’s eyes” if taken literally.
If you think about it, there could be a dead person in the house right next to you. I often find myself wanting to look into my neighbor’s house to view a corpse. I imagine an old man slumped in a ratty, dusty chair–his mouth hanging slack-jawed, his eyes staring off towards the peeling, yellowed ceiling. Decades of neglect deteriorating his house; it’s no wonder he fought his last moments. He simply lost his will to live.
I’m more intrigued by the first two sentences of that one. Say them out loud and I think they would have more of an impact. It might be an idea to use with my band, Shadows of Immurement, but I’m going to leave it as is for now. I just now noticed that I don’t like the phrase “peeling, yellowed ceiling.” I like the idea but the structure seems awkward to me there. To match the two words it should be “yellowing” or maybe adding a “still” to “peeling.” The two words together also amuse me. I automatically remove the “l” from “peeling” and they still match. They don’t quite convey the idea of an old ceiling, but they match.
The following section comes from a story that’s meant to be silly and stupid so I can’t make fun of it too much. By this point in the story the main character, Clara, was at a pool when her legs got run over. She renamed herself “Splatty.”
So Clara, a.k.a. Splatty, sat. Splatty sat. She sat by the pool, getting a sunburn. So now she looked like a cooked lobster with severed legs. It didn’t help that her thumbs on each hand were the size of the other four if they were fused together at birth, and it just so happened that her other four on each hand were fused at birth. It also didn’t help that she tied her hair up in an “antennae” look that morning.
The pool drained now. Great, she thought, now if I try to go inside the rest of me will splat on the bottom. So she stayed where she was, waiting for help. After half an hour, help didn’t come, but it did a minute later. It came in form of a small boy who looked like a little Japanese Hitler.
It turns out the boy may have not been very helpful and Clara had to go to the hospital. After treating her the doctor recites a poem:
“No more help from little boys.
They will come from all directions,
And fly from you to far away.
No more help from little boys.
Not even in Sidney.
Go to your face, kidney!”
Then she goes and gets help from the boy, Adi, after all. She’s back at the hospital, tells the doctor who the boy is, and he tells her another poem:
“Adi is the worse,
Never get help from him.
He will make you feel pain.
Fly off a rock, mammy,
And feel like a pig!”
“That one wasn’t as good.”
“I’m running out of ideas. Just stay away from that kid, okay?”
Indeed, at least my stories include life lessons. Okay, I have one more excerpt for today:
The girl had hair the color of light cigarette ashes. [SIC] Her boyfriend had hair the color of scalp. In fact, he believed he shaved his head. He could have a head the same color of her hair, if he put his cigarettes out on his head. But he couldn’t remember if he smoked.
That’s the entire draft of that story. Somewhere along the line I learned not to start writing until I have some semblance of a story in mind. I liked the idea of a girl with the hair the “color of lit cigarette ashes.” Then I had no idea where the bit about her boyfriend came from. I’ll probably recycle the cigarette hair idea but not quite in the same way in the future. I do find “hair the color of scalp” amusing but I’ll leave it to the above excerpt. It’s published now on this blog, anyway. I’m sure to make millions from this post.